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During vanavas,Sathyabama and Krishna went to meet pandavas and Draupadi,Sathyabama asked how her husbands are obedient to her. Is that because of her charm or some wicked methods.And the slender-waisted Satyabhama, the favourite wife of Krishna and the daughter of Satrajit, then asked Draupadi in private, saying, 'By what behaviour is it, O daughter of Drupada, that thou art able to rule the sons of Pandu--those heroes endued with strength and beauty and like unto the Lokapalas themselves? Beautiful lady, how is it that they are so obedient to thee and are never angry with thee? Without doubt the sons of Pandu, O thou of lovely features, are ever submissive to thee and watchful to do thy binding, Tell me, O lady, the reason of this. Is it practice of vows, or asceticism, or incantation or drug at the time of the bath (in season) or the efficacy of science, or the influence of youthful appearance, or the recitation of particular formulae, or Homa, or collyrium and other medicaments? Tell me now, O princess of Panchala, of that blessed and auspicious thing by which, O Krishna, Krishna may ever be obedient to me."Draupadi was shocked and said how the pandavas are obedient to her.'Thou askedest me, O Satyabhama, of the practices of women that are wicked. How can I answer thee, O lady, about the cause that is pursued by wicked females?She said that she doesn't do anything that a wicked woman does.Hear now, O illustrious lady, of the behaviour I adopt towards the high-souled sons of Pandu. Keeping aside vanity, and controlling desire and wrath, I always serve with devotion the sons of Pandu with their wives. Restraining jealousy, with deep devotion of heart, without a sense of degradation at the services I perform, I wait upon my husbands. Ever fearing to utter what is evil or false, or to look or sit or walk with impropriety, or cast glances indicative of the feelings of the heart, do I serve the sons of PrithaShe was attracted to any men other than her husbands. She eat, sleep and bath after after her husband.Celestial, or man, or Gandharva, young or decked with ornaments, wealthy or comely of person, none else my heart liketh. I never bathe or eat or sleep till he that is my husband hath bathed or eaten or slept,--till, in fact, our attendants have bathed, eaten, or slept. Whether returning from the field, the forest, or the town, hastily rising up I always salute my husband with water and a seat. I always keep the house and all household articles and the food that is to be taken well-ordered and clean. Carefully do I keep the rice, and serve the food at the proper time.She never gets angry.I never indulge in angry and fretful speech, and never imitate women that are wicked.She never laughs loud.Keeping idleness at distance I always do what is agreeable. I never laugh except at a jest, and never stay for any length of time at the house-gate. I never stay long in places for answering calls of nature, nor in pleasure-gardens attached to the house. I always refrain from laughing loudly and indulging in high passion, and from everything that may give offence. Indeed, O Satyabhama, I always am engaged in waiting upon my lords.She cannot accept separation from her husbands. She does penance when they are away.A separation from my lords is never agreeable to me. When my husband leaveth home for the sake of any relative, then renouncing flowers and fragrant paste of every kind, I begin to undergo penances. Whatever my husband drinketh not, whatever my husband eateth not, whatever my husband enjoyeth not, I ever renounce. O beautiful lady, decked in ornaments and ever controlled by the instruction imparted to me, I always devotedly seek the good of my lord.She gives alms and offerings as her mother in law's instructions.Those duties that my mother-in-law had told me of in respect of relatives, as also the duties of alms-giving, of offering worship to the gods, of oblations to the diseased, of boiling food in pots on auspicious days for offer to ancestors and guests of reverence and service to those that deserve our regards, and all else that is known to me,Husband is wife's god. Never speak ill of her mother in law.>I think that to be eternal virtue for women which is based upon a regard for the husband. The husband is the wife's god, and he is her refuge. Indeed, there is no other refuge for her. How can, then, the wife do the least injury to her lord? I never, in sleeping or eating or adorning any person, act against the wishes of my lord, and always guided by my husbands, I never speak ill of my mother-in-law. O blessed lady, my husbands have become obedient to me in consequence of my diligence, my alacrity, and the humility with which I serve superiors.She waits for Kunti with food and drink and clothes.>Personally do I wait every day with food and drink and clothes upon the revered and truthful Kunti--that mother of heroes. Never do I show any preference for myself over her in matters of food and attire, and never do I reprove in words that princess equal unto the Earth herself in forgiveness.She eats only after feeding the brahmanas.>Formerly, eight thousand Brahmanas were daily fed in the palace of Yudhishthira from off plates of gold. I used to worship duly with food, drink, and raiment taken from stores only after a portion thereof had been dedicated to the Viswadeva.She was the finance minister of Indraprasth.>Yudhishthira lived in Indraprastha a hundred thousand horses and a hundred thousand elephants used to follow in his train. These were the possessions of Yudhisthira while he ruled the earth. It was I however, O lady, who regulated their number and framed the rules to be observed in respect of them; and it was I who had to listen to all complaints about them. Indeed, I knew everything about what the maid-servants of the palace and other classes of attendants, even the cow-herds and the shepherds of the royal establishment, did or did not. O blessed and illustrious lady, it was I alone amongst the Pandavas who knew the income and expenditure of the king and what their whole wealth was. And those bulls among the Bharatas, throwing upon me the burden of looking after all those that were to be fed by them, would, O thou of handsome face, pay their court to me.She controls her hunger and feeds the princes. She was first to wake up and last to go to bed.>Day and night bearing hunger and thirst, I used to serve the Kuru princes, so that my nights and days were equal to me. I used to wake up first and go to bed last. This, O Satyabhama, hath ever been my charm for making my husbands obedient to me! This great art hath ever been known to me for making my husbands obedient to me. Never have I practised the charms of wicked women, nor do I ever wish to practise them."Don't speak to any person in private not even to sons.>Foregoing all excitement and carelessness in the presence of men, conceal thy inclinations by observing silence, and thou shouldst not stay or converse in private even with thy sons, Pradyumna and Samva. Thou shouldst form attachments with only such females as are high-born and sinless and devoted to their lords, and thou shouldst always shun women that are wrathful, addicted to drinks, gluttonous, thievish, wicked and fickleThen she embraced her and went to Dwaraka.Satyabhama then, having embraced the daughter of Drupada,

Rajat Sharma shared his feelings on Arun Jaitley ji in his show “Aaj ki bat”…अरुण जेटली मेरे परम मित्र थे. हमारी मित्रता पांच दशक पुरानी थी. उनके निधन से मैं मर्माहत हूं. ईश्वर उनके परिवार को दुख की इस घड़ी में शक्ति प्रदान करें. जेटली एक कुशल प्रशासक, एक विज्ञ विधिवेत्ता, और एक निष्कलंक राजनेता थे. परमेश्वर उनकी आत्मा को शांति प्रदान करें. @arunjaitley— Rajat Sharma (@RajatSharmaLive) August 24, 2019…Normally my show ‘Aaj Ki Baat’ is not aired on weekends on India TV, but Saturday (August 24) was a special day. Today I want to share my sorrow and grief with my viewers, because my best friend Arun Jaitley is no more.Arun used to tell me that difficulties do come in life, crisis do occur and illness does take place, but the show must go on. Heeding to his advice, I have come before my viewers to share my grief.Arun was a nice individual, a good leader, but personally I have lost my best friend who, being elder to me, was also my guardian. Today I really feel the sorrow of losing an elder in the family. He guided me in the best of times and the worst of times.For me, Arun is not merely a name, he is the incarnation of all those values whom I hold dear in my life. Our relationship was not 10 to 15 years old, it spanned 45 years that strengthened with the march of time. Normally the relationship between a journalist and a politician more or less remains professional, but we knew each other when he was not a leader nor was I in journalism.I personally witnessed the gradual rise of Arun in politics, and on his part, he helped me in becoming a good journalist. Today, as I recollect those 45 years of friendship with him, I can remember each and every moment. The imagery of those moments appear as flashbacks at the back of my mind.For the last 15 days, whenever I used to leave my office after Aaj Ki Baat show, I used to reach AIIMS hoping to hear some good news. Even the doctors were optimistic when Jaitley was in a stable condition. On Saturday noon, when I got the terrible news, I was crestfallen. I felt as if some thing snapped inside me and I had lost every thing. I could never acknowledge that Arun would ever lose a battle, but has any body won against God’s will?Arun used to speak a lot, whenever I went to meet him. Occasionally, he used to tell me, Panditji, at least say something. Today when I saw him lying in deep slumber in AIIMS, my inner voice cried out, Arun, at least say something, but my friend had gone to sleep, for eternity. Has any body woken up from eternal sleep?Our first meetingI first met Arun Jaitley in 1973 at Shriram College of Commerce. I hailed from a poor family of 10 members living in a single room house in Old Delhi. I had gone to pay my admission fees at the counter, and the clerk was annoyed because I had taken currencies of small denominations that our family had saved over the years. The clerk became angry when he found that I was three rupees short.At that time, Arun was a student leader of ABVP. He put a hand over my shoulder, asked my name, and asked me how much money I needed. When I mumbled the amount, he took out a five rupee note, and the admission fee was paid. The hand of friendship that Jaitley had extended to me in 1973 continued over the years till Saturday noon, when Fate snapped off our friendship.Our days in DUJaitley rose from being an ordinary ABVP worker to the exalted position of Minister of Finance, Defence, and Leader of Opposition but there was never a single stain of corruption on him in his long political career. Moral probity and honesty were the hallmarks of his illustrious political life. It is difficult to find such honest men in public life. I had been his co-traveller in his early political life.By 1973, Jaitley had already made his mark in student politics. He was then studying B.Com. Those were the days when Lok Nayak Jayaprakash Narayan launched his nationwide anti-corruption movement, and he appointed Jaitley as the national convenor of Chhatra Sangharsh Samiti. The next year, in 1974, Jaitley contested and won the post of president of Delhi University Students Union.As an ABVP worker, I used to work for Jaitley’s poll campaign. Since I could not drive, I used to ride on the pillion of Vijay Goel’s scooter to stick posters throughout the city and then we used to sit together for a late night dinner. Those were our days in student politics. I recently saw an old photograph of 1974 in which Jaitley was treating me and other ABVP workers to ice cream.Arun loved street food, and he considered himself a gourmet expert. He knew where to get the best kebab, the best rogan josh or the best chicken wings in town. In short, he was a foodie and he loved entertaining friends and acquaintances with delectable cuisines. A few months ago, I had gone for a working lunch with Arun at his office, and he suddenly asked me, Panditji, do you know where one can get the best rogan josh in town? I replied, Well, I am a vegetarian, how do I know. Arun said: The best at Moti Mahal, and better than the best, at your own home.Emergency daysArun Jaitley was very good in oratory. He used to blend facts with logic to create an impact in the minds of his audience. As DUSU president, he always used to smile and never expressed his anger.On June 25, 1975 at midnight the then Prime Minister Indira Gandhi got Emergency proclaimed in India and almost all the top opposition leaders were arrested. The Delhi Police went to Jaitley’s house to arrest him.When Arun’s dad, an eminent lawyer, kept the police busy in arguments, Arun slipped out from the back door. The next morning, he led a procession inside Delhi University campus, shouted anti-government slogans, stood on a table inside the DU canteen and in a speech denounced dictatorship. Police picked him up immediately.Arun spent several months in Ambala jail, and from there he was later shifted to Tihar jail. In all, he spent the entire 19 months of Emergency in jail.By that time, I and other ABVP workers had also been arrested and lodged in Tihar jail. Our wards were different. Jaitley was lodged with eminent leaders and senior journalists, who later became his lifelong friends. It was in jail that I realized the extent of Arun’s courage and political will.Janata Party daysThe Janata Party swept the Lok Sabha polls in 1977. Arun could not contest because he was yet to attain the minimum age of 25 years for contesting parliamentary elections.I cannot forget the day when the Janata Party chief Chandrashekhar formed the national executive that consisted of political titans like Morarji Desai, Charan Singh, L. K. Advani, Atal Bihari Vajpayee, Nanaji Deshmukh, and the name of Arun Jaitley, who was yet to become 25 figured in the list. Later, Jaitley had to resign after RSS leaders instructed him to come out of the national executive. Arun never hankered for any plum posts.In 1977, Arun had completed his graduation and had joined LLB course. He wanted me to become more active in student politics. I contested for DUSU secretary post that year and won.The new office bearers sought Jaitley’s advice on whom to invite for the new DUSU inauguration ceremony. He suggested that the Prime Minister Morarji Desai should be invited. Desai attended the function which was presided over by Arun Jaitley. Since then, I had always wanted Arun to preside whichever event I used to organize.As a lawyer-cum-politicianDuring the Seventies, Arun started training with his lawyer dad after completing LLB course. He was also functioning as president of Delhi ABVP and as the national ABVP secretary.When the BJP was formed in 1980, Jaitley was appointed secretary of Delhi BJP. Since then he had been doing organisational work for the party for 22 years at a stretch, drafting resolutions, preparing strategies and briefing the media. He never sought tickets to contest Lok Sabha or Rajya Sabha elections. His legal practice flourished during this time, as Arun revelled in multi-tasking.Arun first became an advocate in Delhi High Court and also practised in Supreme Court. He was appointed Additional Solicitor General at the age of 37 during Prime Minister V P Singh’s tenure. He set the record of becoming the youngest Additional Solicitor General.Atal Bihari Vajpayee formed his first government at the Centre for 13 days, then for 13 months and later for five years. Vajpayee used to trust Arun Jaitley, who became a Union Minister at the age of 47 in 1999. He was given portfolio of Information & Broadcasting, and later Law and Company Affairs. Vajpayee once told me that it was difficult to run the government without Arun Jaitley, but the latter was insisting on doing party work. Arun left the government in 2003 to do party work, but had to rejoin later.Multi-taskingArun was good at multi-tasking. He was equally proficient in courtrooms and politics, he was also a cricket administrator, he loved watching films and listening to old gems by Sahir Ludhianvi and Shakeel Badayuni. He used to discuss odd things like food, cricket and other gossips with clients, while poring over legal files, and after he finished examining the files, he used to fire questions on minute details, which only an avid reader could grasp.For Arun, it was not law, but politics which he liked best. For him, politics was a passion. He stopped doing legal practice, when he was appointed Leader of Opposition. He returned his legal licence to devote his time to politics.Personal friendshipDuring the 45 years that we were friends, Arun always stood by me through thick and thin. It was due to Arun that I came closer to the then PM Atal Bihari Vajpayee and his family.Arun Jaitley sat in the dock of my show ‘Aap Ki Adalat’ five times. Though we were close personal friends, he never expected me to be soft towards him while grilling.I remember once when I grilled Arun hard soon after demonetization, I was later told by our common friends that I was unduly harsh towards him. I met Arun and asked him whether he was unhappy. Arun told me that I was only doing my job as a journalist and he was doing his, and he said, this grilling had added more value to the show.Similarly, after GST was implemented, Arun came as a guest my show and explained how much essential it was for India to switch over to a digitalized economy in order to become an economic superpower.The last interview was soon after the IAF air strike on Balakot in Pakistan. The Opposition, particularly Congress leader Kapil Sibal, was seeking proof of bodies of terrorists killed in the strike. When I posed this question, Arun was at his acerbic best. He said, even a superpower like the United States was yet to give details about the Navy SEAL commando action that led to the killing of dreaded Al Qaeda chief Osama bin Laden and his mortal remains were thrown at sea.My last conversationMy last conversation with Arun was when he was getting ready to be taken to AIIMS. My friend appeared to be in deep thoughts. He told me, Pandit ji, I have got every thing that I sought from life. I wanted to become a student leader, I reached the top, I wanted to make my mark in legal practice, I reached the top, I entered politics, became the Leader of Opposition and Union Minister, my children are now well settled, you are also in a good position now, I do not have any more wish to fulfill. If I come through (this phase of treatment), I would like to quit politics, and only read books and write books.Today as I sat near my friend’s body, I had a simple complaint to make to God: Why were you in such a hurry to take away an honest person whose only remaining wish was to write books in peace?

Well, Fred, I am not a weepy sort, unlike my confrere Tom Robinson, whom I envy for his free-flowing lacrimations. There are reasons for that, but the main thing is that, though not prone to weeping, I am, nonetheless, extremely sensitive, and prone to getting choked up — not tears rolling down the face, but verklemmt. I’ve so often cited Wordsworth’s “Intimations” ode that I will not repeat it here, but he wrecks me elsewhere, so I’ll quote some of that “elsewhere.”Instead I will cite a few poems I don’t think I’ve mentioned on Quora before, and which, for one reason or another, kill me.So: got two or three hours? You’ll need them, even for this little selection.I should note that one poem that always, always kills me is Tennyson’s In Memoriam A.H.H. But that is a very long poem. The whole thing is here. I’ll quote a few of its early stanzas below.Now, I’ve noticed that Quora bots all of a sudden have begun collapsing answers for not being “written in English” when sources in other tongues are quoted. To avoid this annoyance I should stick to English-language poetry. I won’t, and let the bots go hang. Note that I am omitting Shakespeare, since what makes me teary in him resides chiefly in the plays. The scene that kills me every time is King Lear IV.vii. Read the play. You’ll see.I reread Eliot’s Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock recently, and it was painful too — like Lear (though never equal to it), it hurts more with age. But everyone knows that poem. (Right? Well, probably not.) This answer is going to be long. So I will refrain from quoting Prufrock here. Want to read it? Here: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. EliotMost of these are a little, and some are a lot, less well-known than Eliot’s early masterpiece. I’ll quote them.And as always, I have many more.Anyone who knows depression knows how solitary it is. I still remember when I read the words “O the mind, mind has mountains” et seq.Gerard Manley Hopkins, “[No worst, there is none]”No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.Comforter, where, where is your comforting?Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chiefWoe, wórld-sorrow; on an áge-old anvil wince and sing —Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked 'No ling-ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief."'O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fallFrightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheapMay who ne'er hung there. Nor does long our smallDurance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: allLife death does end and each day dies with sleep.There were chronic angers in my house growing up; there are none for my son to deal with; but “love’s offices,” for a (good) parent or some similar loving guardian and comforter, remain what they are either way. One of our little tragedies as a species is that we can never truly know what others have carried for us, particularly those who have loved us. I know all too keenly from others that there are those who cannot know either the pain or the gratitude built into these lines, because they have “parents” who are monsters — and I intend no insult to monsters in likening them to such parents.Robert Hayden, “Those Winter Sundays”Sundays too my father got up earlyand put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,then with cracked hands that achedfrom labor in the weekday weather madebanked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.When the rooms were warm, he’d call,and slowly I would rise and dress,fearing the chronic angers of that house,Speaking indifferently to him,who had driven out the coldand polished my good shoes as well.What did I know, what did I knowof love’s austere and lonely offices?Okay, parents and children again — with and without siblings. Here are two by the same poet.Seamus Heaney, “Limbo”Fishermen at BallyshannonNetted an infant last nightAlong with the salmon.An illegitimate spawning,A small one thrown backTo the waters. But I'm sureAs she stood in the shallowsDucking him tenderlyTill the frozen knobs of her wristsWere dead as the gravel,He was a minnow with hooksTearing her open.She waded in underThe sign of the cross.He was hauled in with the fish.Now limbo will beA cold glitter of soulsThrough some far briny zone.Even Christ's palms, unhealed,Smart and cannot fish there.I mean, dear god. But wait, there’s more. And mind you, I am keeping my grubby mitts off Seeing Things here — which is this poet’s most harrowing collective grappling with mortality. These are early poems.Seamus Heaney, “Mid-Term Break”I sat all morning in the college sick bayCounting bells knelling classes to a close.At two o'clock our neighbours drove me home.In the porch I met my father crying—He had always taken funerals in his stride—And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pramWhen I came in, and I was embarrassedBy old men standing up to shake my handAnd tell me they were 'sorry for my trouble'.Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,Away at school, as my mother held my handIn hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.At ten o'clock the ambulance arrivedWith the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.Next morning I went up into the room. SnowdropsAnd candles soothed the bedside; I saw himFor the first time in six weeks. Paler now,Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,He lay in the four-foot box as in his cot.No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.A four-foot box, a foot for every year.Think those are brutal? How about two of Ben Jonson’s poems on the deaths of his children. That they are studded with classical allusions tells us that allusion was an affective phenomenon for those steeped in mythic thinking.Ben Jonson, “On My First Daughter”Here lies, to each her parents’ ruth,Mary, the daughter of their youth;Yet all heaven’s gifts being heaven’s due,It makes the father less to rue.At six months’ end she parted henceWith safety of her innocence;Whose soul heaven’s queen, whose name she bears,In comfort of her mother’s tears,Hath placed amongst her virgin-train:Where, while that severed doth remain,This grave partakes the fleshly birth;Which cover lightly, gentle earth!Not choked up yet? Let’s add this, then:Ben Jonson, “On My First Son”Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy.Seven years tho' wert lent to me, and I thee pay,Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.O, could I lose all father now! For whyWill man lament the state he should envy?To have so soon 'scap'd world's and flesh's rage,And if no other misery, yet age?Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say, "Here doth lieBen Jonson his best piece of poetry."For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such,As what he loves may never like too much.How about losing a best friend — a friend with whom one shares so much that the bond is, or might as well be, erotic?from Alfred, Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A.H.H.II held it truth, with him who singsTo one clear harp in divers tones,That men may rise on stepping-stonesOf their dead selves to higher things.But who shall so forecast the yearsAnd find in loss a gain to match?Or reach a hand thro' time to catchThe far-off interest of tears?Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd,Let darkness keep her raven gloss:Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss,To dance with death, to beat the ground,Than that the victor Hours should scornThe long result of love, and boast,`Behold the man that loved and lost,But all he was is overworn.'IIOld Yew, which graspest at the stonesThat name the under-lying dead,Thy fibres net the dreamless head,Thy roots are wrapt about the bones.The seasons bring the flower again,And bring the firstling to the flock;And in the dusk of thee, the clockBeats out the little lives of men.O, not for thee the glow, the bloom,Who changest not in any gale,Nor branding summer suns availTo touch thy thousand years of gloom:And gazing on thee, sullen tree,Sick for thy stubborn hardihood,I seem to fail from out my bloodAnd grow incorporate into thee.IIIO Sorrow, cruel fellowship,O Priestess in the vaults of Death,O sweet and bitter in a breath,What whispers from thy lying lip?'The stars,' she whispers, `blindly run;A web is wov'n across the sky;From out waste places comes a cry,And murmurs from the dying sun:'And all the phantom, Nature, stands—With all the music in her tone,A hollow echo of my own,—A hollow form with empty hands.'And shall I take a thing so blind,Embrace her as my natural good;Or crush her, like a vice of blood,Upon the threshold of the mind?IVTo Sleep I give my powers away;My will is bondsman to the dark;I sit within a helmless bark,And with my heart I muse and say:O heart, how fares it with thee now,That thou should'st fail from thy desire,Who scarcely darest to inquire,'What is it makes me beat so low?'Something it is which thou hast lost,Some pleasure from thine early years.Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears,That grief hath shaken into frost!Such clouds of nameless trouble crossAll night below the darken'd eyes;With morning wakes the will, and cries,'Thou shalt not be the fool of loss.'VI sometimes hold it half a sinTo put in words the grief I feel;For words, like Nature, half revealAnd half conceal the Soul within.But, for the unquiet heart and brain,A use in measured language lies;The sad mechanic exercise,Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,Like coarsest clothes against the cold:But that large grief which these enfoldIs given in outline and no more.VIOne writes, that `Other friends remain,'That `Loss is common to the race'—And common is the commonplace,And vacant chaff well meant for grain.That loss is common would not makeMy own less bitter, rather more:Too common! Never morning woreTo evening, but some heart did break.O father, wheresoe'er thou be,Who pledgest now thy gallant son;A shot, ere half thy draught be done,Hath still'd the life that beat from thee.O mother, praying God will saveThy sailor,—while thy head is bow'd,His heavy-shotted hammock-shroudDrops in his vast and wandering grave.Ye know no more than I who wroughtAt that last hour to please him well;Who mused on all I had to tell,And something written, something thought;Expecting still his advent home;And ever met him on his wayWith wishes, thinking, `here to-day,'Or `here to-morrow will he come.'O somewhere, meek, unconscious dove,That sittest ranging golden hair;And glad to find thyself so fair,Poor child, that waitest for thy love!For now her father's chimney glowsIn expectation of a guest;And thinking `this will please him best,'She takes a riband or a rose;For he will see them on to-night;And with the thought her colour burns;And, having left the glass, she turnsOnce more to set a ringlet right;And, even when she turn'd, the curseHad fallen, and her future LordWas drown'd in passing thro' the ford,Or kill'd in falling from his horse.O what to her shall be the end?And what to me remains of good?To her, perpetual maidenhood,And unto me no second friend.VIIDark house, by which once more I standHere in the long unlovely street,Doors, where my heart was used to beatSo quickly, waiting for a hand,A hand that can be clasp'd no more—Behold me, for I cannot sleep,And like a guilty thing I creepAt earliest morning to the door.He is not here; but far awayThe noise of life begins again,And ghastly thro' the drizzling rainOn the bald street breaks the blank day.It does get better, the grief, after its fashion. But to find out how, you need to read the whole magnificent thing.Time for the bots to become unhappy. No English translation can do this any justice at all. This, not Lycidas, is the greatest pastoral elegy ever written by an English poet. Here’s another killer on the theme of In Memoriam A.H.H.Milton’s best friend, Charles Diodati, died while Milton was on his studious travels in Italy. He came home to find the person who knew and loved him best already gone. He had no chance to say goodbye. The English translation appended is useless. He supercharges the topoi of pastoral elegy to their limits, and felt grief drips from them; his supposed “Puritanism” doesn’t sit well with his wish that his dead friend be present to him, personally, as a tutelary spirit (“dexter ades,” “be here at my right hand” — a borrowing from Ovid and others, and yet, here, so much more powerful); he talks to the dead young man of his literary plans and ambitions, as though there were no one else to share them with; and if you know what exactly to think of the Dionysiac orgies of Zion, and their suggestion of this-worldly homoeroticism, I’d love to hear it. This was a grief that changed Milton. If you have the linguistic know-how to read this, it will screw you up inside too.First, for the Latinists, the real thing.John Milton, Epitaphium DamonisHimerides nymphæ (nam vos & Daphnin & Hylan,Et plorata diu meministis fata Bionis)Dicite Sicelicum Thamesina per oppida carmen:Quas miser effudit voces, quæ murmura Thyrsis,Et quibus assiduis exercuit antra querelis, [ 5 ]Fluminaque, fontesque vagos, nemorumque recessus,Dum sibi præreptum queritur Damona, neque altamLuctibus exemit noctem, loca sola pererrans.Et jam bis viridi surgebat culmus arista,Et totidem flavas numerabant horrea messes,Ex quo summa dies tulerat Damona sub umbras,Nec dum aderat Thyrsis; pastorem scilicet illumDulcis amor Musæ Thusca retinebat in urbe.Ast ubi mens expleta domum, pecorisque relictiCura vocat, simul assuetâ sedítque sub ulmoTum vero amissum tum denique sentit amicum,Cœpit & immensum sic exonerare dolorem.Ite domum impasti, domino jam non vacat, agni.Hei mihi! quæ terris, quæ dicam numina cœlo,Postquam te immiti rapuerunt funere Damon;Siccine nos linquis, tua sic sine nomine virtusIbit, & obscuris numero sociabitur umbris?At non ille animas virgâ qui dividit aureâIsta velit, dignumque tui te ducat in agmen,Ignavumque procol pecus arceat omne silentum.Ite domum impasti, domino jam non vacat, agni.Quicquid erit, certè nisi me lupus antè videbit,Indeplorato non comminuere sepulchro,Constabitque tuus tibi honos, longúmque vigebitInter pastores: Illi tibi vota secundo.Solvere post Daphnin, post Daphnin dicere laudes,Gaudebunt, dum rura Pales, dum Faunus amabit:Si quid id est, priscamque fidem coluisse, piúmque,Palladiásque artes, sociúmque habuisse canorum.Ite domum impasti, domino jam non vacat, agni.Hæc tibi certa manent, tibi erunt hæc præmia, Damon,At mihi quid tandem fiet modò? quis mihi fidusHærebit lateri comes, ut tu sæpe solebasFrigoribus duris, & per loca fœta pruinis,Aut rapido sub sole, siti morientibus herbis?Sive opus in magnos fuit eminùs ire leonesAut avidos terrere lupos præsepibus altis;Quis fando sopire diem, cantuque solebit?'Ite domum impasti, domino jam non vacat, agni.Pectora cui credam? quis me lenire docebitMordaces curas, quis longam fallere noctemDulcibus alloquiis, grato cùm sibilat igniMolle pyrum, & nucibus strepitat focus, at malus austerMiscet cuncta foris, & desuper intonat ulmo.Ite domum impasti, domino jam non vacat, agni.Aut æstate, dies medio dum vertitur axe,Cum Pan æsculeâ somnum capit abditus umbrâ,Et repetunt sub aquis sibi nota sedilia nymphæ.Pastoresque latent, stertit sub sepe colonus,Quis mihi blanditiásque tuas, quis tum mihi risus,Cecropiosque sales referet, cultosque lepores?Ite domum impasti, domino jam non vacat, agni.At jam solus agros, jam pascua solus oberro,Sicubi ramosæ densantur vallibus umbræ,Hic serum expecto; supra caput imber & EurusTriste sonant, fractæque agitata crepuscula silvæ.Ite domum impasti, domino jam non vacat, agni.Heu quàm culta mihi priùs arva procacibus herbisInvolvuntur, & ipsa situ seges alta fatiscit!Innuba neglecto marcescit & uva racemo,Nec myrteta juvant; ovium quoque tædet, at illæMœrent, inque suum convertunt ora magistrum.Ite domum impasti, domino jam non vacat, agni.Tityrus ad corylos vocat, Alphesibœus ad ornos,Ad salices Aegon, ad flumina pulcher Amyntas,Hic gelidi fontes, hîc illita gramina musco,Hic Zephyri, hîc placidas interstrepit arbutus undas;Ista canunt surdo, frutices ego nactus abibam.Ite domum impasti, domino jam non vacat, agni.Mopsus ad hæc, nam me redeuntem forte notârat,(Et callebat avium linguas, & sydera Mopsus)Thyrsi, quid hoc? dixit, quæ te coquit improba bilis?Aut te perdit amor, aut te malè fascinat astrum,Saturni grave sæpe fuit pastoribus astrum,Intimaque obliquo figit præcordia plumbo.Ite domum impasti, domino jam non vacat, agni.Mirantur nymphæ, & quid te Thyrsi, futurum est?Quid tibi vis? ajunt, non hæc solet esse juventæNubila frons, oculique truces, vultusque severi,Illa choros, lususque leves, & semper amoremJure petit; bis ille miser qui serus amavit.Ite domum impasti, domino jam non vacat, agni.Venit Hyas, Dryopéque, & filia Baucidis Aegle,Docta modos, citharæque sciens, sed perdita fastu,Venit Idumanii Chloris vicina fluenti;Nil me blanditiæ, nil me solantia verba,Nil me, si quid adest, movet, aut spes ulla futuri.Ite domum impasti, domino jam non vacat, agni.Hei mihi quam similes ludunt per prata juvenci,Omnes unanimi secum sibi lege sodales,Nec magis hunc alio quisquam secernit amicumDe grege, sic densi veniunt ad pabula thoes,Inque vicem hirsuti paribus junguntur onagri;Lex eadem pelagi, deserto in littore ProteusAgmina Phocarum numerat, vilisque volucrumPasser habet semper quicum sit, & omnia circumFarra libens volitet, serò sua tecta revisens,Quem si fors letho objecit, seu milvus aduncoFata tulit rostro, seu stravit arundine fossor,Protinus ille alium socio petit inde volatu.Nos durum genus, & diris exercita fatisGens homines aliena animis, & pectore discors,Vix sibi quisque parem de millibus invenit unum,Aut, si sors dederit tandem non aspera votis,Illum inopina dies quâ non speraveris horâSurripit, æternum linquens in sæcula damnum.Ite domum impasti, domino jam non vacat, agni.Heu quis me ignotas traxit vagus error in orasIre per aëreas rupes, Alpemque nivosam!Ecquid erat tanti Romam vidisse sepultam?Quamvis illa foret, qualem dum viseret olim,Tityrus ipse suas & oves & rura reliquit,Ut te tam dulci possem caruisse sodale,Possem tot maria alta, tot interponere montes,Tot silvas, tot saxa tibi, fluviosque sonantes.Ah certè extremùm licuisset tangere dextram,Et bene compositos placidè morientis ocellos,Et dixisse, vale, nostri memor ibis ad astra.Ite domum impasti, domino jam non vacat, agni.Quamquam etiam vestri nunquam meminisse pigebitPastores Thusci Musis operata juventus,Hic Charis, atque Lepos; & Thuscus tu quoque Damon,Antiquâ genus unde petis Lucumonis ab urbe.O ego quantus eram, gelidi cum stratus ad ArniMurmura, populeumque nemus, quà mollior herba,Carpere nunc violas, nunc summas carpere myrtos,Et potui Lycidæ certantem audire Menalcam.Ipse etiam tentare ausus sum, nec puto multumDisplicui, nam sunt & apud me munera vestraFiscellæ, calathique & cerea vincla cicutæ.Quin & nostra suas docuerunt nomina fagosEt Datis, & Francinus, erant & vocibus amboEt studiis noti, Lydorum sanguinis ambo.Ite domum impasti, domino jam non vacat, agni.Hæc mihi tum læto dictabat roscida luna,Dum solus teneros claudebam cratibus hœdos.Ah quoties dixi, cùm te cinis ater habebat,Nunc canit, aut lepori nunc tendit retia Damon,Vimina nunc texit, varios sibi quod sit in usus;Et quæ tum facile sperabam mente futuraArripui voto levis, & præsentia finxi,Heus bone numquid agis? nisi te quid forte retardat,Imus? & argutâ paulùm recubamus in umbra,Aut ad aquas Colni, aut ubi jugera Cassibelauni?Tu mihi percurres medicos, tua gramina, succos,Helleborùmque, humilésque crocos, foliûmque hyacinthi,Quasque habet ista palus herbas, artesque medentûm,Ah pereant herbæ, pereant artesque medentñm,Gramina, postquam ipsi nil profecere magistro.Ipse etiam, nam nescio quid mihi grande sonabatFistula, ab undecimâ jam lux est altera nocte,Et tum forte novis admôram labra cicutis,Dissiluere tamen rupta compage, nec ultraFerre graves potuere sonos, dubito quoque ne simTurgidulus, tamen & referam, vos cedite silvæ.Ite domum impasti, domino jam non vacat, agni.Ipse ego Dardanias Rutupina per æquora puppesDicam, & Pandrasidos regnum vetus Inogeniæ,Brennúmque Arviragumque duces, priscúmque Belinum,Et tandem Armoricos Britonum sub lege colonos;Tum gravidam Arturo fatali fraude Jëgernen,Mendaces vultus, assumptáque Gorlöis arma,Merlini dolus. O mihi tum si vita supersit,Tu procul annosa pendebis fistula pinuMultùm oblita mihi, aut patriis mutata camœnisBrittonicum strides, quid enim? omnia non licet uniNon sperasse uni licet omnia, mi satis amplaMerces, & mihi grande decus (sim ignotus in ævumTum licet, externo penitúsque inglorius orbi)Si me flava comas legat Usa, & potor Alauni,Vorticibúsque frequens Abra, & nemus omne Treantæ,Et Thamesis meus ante omnes, & fusca metallisTamara, & extremis me discant Orcades undis.Ite domum impasti, domino jam non vacat, agni.Hæc tibi servabam lentâ sub cortice lauri,Hæc, & plura simul, tum quæ mihi pocula Mansus,Mansus, Chalcidicæ non ultima gloria ripæBina dedit, mirum artis opus, mirandus & ipse,Et circùm gemino cælaverat argumento:In medio rubri maris unda, & odoriferum verLittora longa Arabum, & sudantes balsama silvæ,Has inter Phoenix, divina avis, unica terrisCæruleùm fulgens diversicoloribus alisAuroram vitreis surgentem respicit undis.Parte alia polus omnipatens, & magnus Olympus,Quis putet? hic quoque Amor, pictæque in nube pharetræ,Arma corusca, faces, & spicula tincta pyropo;Nec tenues animas, pectúsque ignobile vulgiHinc ferit; at circùm flammantia lumina torquensSemper in erectum spargit sua tela per orbesImpiger, & pronos nunquam collimat ad ictus,Hinc mentes ardere sacræ, formæque deorum.Tu quoque in his, nec me fallit spes lubrica Damon;Tu quoque in his certè es, nam quò tua dulcis abiretSanctáque simplicitas, nam quò tua candida virtus?Nec te Lethæo fas quæsivisse sub orco,Nec tibi conveniunt lacrymæ, nec flebimus ultra,Ite procul lacrymæ purum colit æthera Damon,Æthera purus habet, pluvium pede reppulit arcum;Heroúmque animas inter, divósque perennes,Æthereos haurit latices & gaudia potatOre Sacro. Quin tu cœli post jura receptaDexter ades, placidúsque fave quicúnque vocaris,Seu tu noster eris Damon, sive æquior audisDiodatus, quo te divino nomine cunctiCœlicolæ norint, silvísque vocabere Damon.Quòd tibi purpureus pudor, & sine labe juventusGrata fuit, quòd nulla tori libata voluptas,En etiam tibi virginei servantur honores;Ipse caput nitidum cinctus rutilante corona,Letáque frondentis gestans umbracula palmæÆternùm perages immortales hymenæos;Cantus ubi, choreisque furit lyra mista beatis,Festa Sionæo bacchantur & Orgia Thyrso.In wretched English prose not designed for this task, but with links to help relieve cultural impoverishment:Nymphs of Himera — for you remember Daphnis and Hylas and the long lamented fate of Bion — repeat this Sicilian song through the cities of Thames; tell what words, what murmurs, unhappy Thyrsis poured forth, and with what ceaseless complaints he disturbed the caves, the rivers, the eddying fountains, and the recesses of the groves, while he mourned to himself for Damon snatched away, nor left deep night free from his lamentations as he wandered in lonely places. Twice the stalk had risen with green ear, and as often had the garners counted the yellow crops, since his last day had borne Damon down to the shades, and Thyrsis was not there the while; love of the sweet muse forsooth detained that shepherd in a Tuscan city. But when a full mind, and the care of the flock he had left behind, called him home, and when he sat once more beneath his accustomed elm, then, then at last he felt in truth the loss of his friend, and began thus to vent his measureless sorrow:"Go home unfed, my lambs, your troubled master is not free to tend you. Ah me! what deities shall I name in earth or heaven, now that they have torn you away, Damon, by inexorable death? Do you leave me thus, and is your virtue to go without a name and be merged with the obscure shades? But nay, let him who with his golden wand marshals the souls will it otherwise, and may he lead you into a company that is worthy of you, and keep far off the whole base herd of the silent dead."Go home unfed, my lambs, your troubled master is not free to tend you. Be sure whatever comes, unless the wolf shall first see me, you shall not moulder in the tomb unwept; your honour shall endure and long flourish among shepherds. To you next after Daphnis shall they rejoice to fulfill their vows, and next after Daphnis of you to speak their praises, so long as Pales, so long as Faunus, love the fields — if it aught avails to have cherished the ancient faith and piety, and the Palladian arts, and to have had a musical compeer."Go home unfed, my lambs, your troubled master is not free to tend you. These rewards for you remain certain, Damon; they shall be yours. But what will become of me; what faithful friend will stay close by my side as you were wont to do in bitter cold through places rough with frost, or under the fierce sun with the grasses dying from drought, whether the task were to go within spear's throw of great lions or to frighten the ravenous wolves from the high sheepfolds? Who will now lull my day to rest with talk and song?"Go home unfed, my lambs, your troubled master is not free to tend you. To whom may I entrust my heart? Who will teach me to assuage my gnawing cares and to cheat the long night with pleasant conversation, when the mellow pears hiss before the cheery fire, nuts crackle on the hearth, and outside the stormy south wind is throwing all in confusion and comes roaring through the elms."Go home unfed, my lambs, your troubled master is not free to tend you. Or in summer when the day turns on mid-axle, when Pan takes his sleep hidden in the oak shade, and the nymphs return to their wonted seats beneath the waters, when shepherds lie concealed, and the husbandman snores beneath the hedge, who will then bring back to me your blandishments, your laughter, Cecropian wit, culture and charm?"Go home unfed, my lambs, your troubled master is not free to tend you. Now I wander in the fields alone, alone through the pastures; wherever the shady branches grow thick in the valleys, there I await the evening, while overhead rain and the south-east wind sadly moan, and the twilight of the forest is broken with gleams of light."Go home unfed, my lambs, your troubled master is not free to tend you. Alas, how my fields once tilled are overgrown with trailing weeds, and even the tall corn droops with blight! The cluster of grapes withers unwedded to the stalk. The myrtle groves please me not. I am weary too of my sheep, but even they are sad and turn their faces to their master."Go home unfed, my lambs, your troubled master is not free to tend you. Tityrus calls to the hazels, Alphesiboeus to the mountain ashes, Aegon to the willows, fair Amyntas to the rivers."'Here are cool fountains,' they cry, 'here are mossy greenswards, here are the zephyrs, here the arbutus whispers amid peaceful streams.'""But, deaf to their songs, I gain the thickets and withdraw."Go home unfed, my lambs, your troubled master is not free to tend you. Then Mopsusspoke, for he by chance had noticed me returning — Mopsus who was versed in the stars and in the language of birds:"'What is this, Thyrsis?' said he; 'What black melancholy is tormenting you? Either you are wasting with love, or some star is casting an evil spell over you. Saturn's star has often been baleful to shepherds, and his slant leaden shaft has pierced your inmost breast.'"Go home unfed, my lambs, your troubled master is not free to tend you. The nymphs are amazed and cry:"'What will become of you, Thyrsis? What do you wish? The brow of youth is not commonly cloudy, the eyes stern, the mien austere; youth seeks dances and nimble sports, and always love as its right. Twice wretched is he who loves late.'"Go home unfed, my lambs, your troubled master is not free to tend you. Hyas came, and Dryope, and Aegle, the daughter of Baucis — Aegle instructed in numbers and skilled on the lyre, but overly proud; Chloris came, a neighbour of the Idumanian river. Their blandishments , their comforting words, are nothing to me; nothing in the present moves me, nor have I any hope for the future."Go home unfed, my lambs, your troubled master is not free to tend you. Ah me! how like one another are the young cattle that frolic through the fields, all comrades to each other under one harmonious law; none seeks from out the herd a special friend. Even so the jackals come in packs to their food, and the shaggy wild asses by turn are joined in pairs. The law of the sea is the same, where on the desert shore Proteus numbers his troops of sea-calves. Even that paltry bird the sparrow always has a mate with whom it happily flies about to every heap of grain, and returns at evening to its own thatch; yet should chance strike one of them dead — whether the kite with hooked beak has brought this fate, or the clown has pierced it with his arrow — the other seeks a new mate to be henceforth its companion in flight. But we men are a stony race, a tribe vexed by stern fates, alien in our minds one from the other, in our hearts discordant. Hardly from among thousands does one find a single kindred spirit, or if fortune not unfriendly gives one such in answer to our prayers, yet in a day and an hour when we least expect it he is snatched away, leaving an everlasting wound."Go home unfed, my lambs, your troubled master is not free to tend you. Ah, what wandering fancy lured me to traverse lofty cliffs and snowy Alps to unknown shores! Was there any such need to see buried Rome — even had it been what it was when Tityrus left his sheep and his pastures to see it — that I could part with so charming a companion, that I could put between us so many deep seas, so many mountains, forests, rocks, and roaring streams? Surely had I stayed I might at the last have touched the hand, and closed the eyes, of him who was peacefully dying, might have said, 'Farewell, remember me when you go to the stars.'"Go home unfed, my lambs, your troubled master is not free to tend you. Even though I shall never weary of remembering you, O Tuscan shepherds, youths devoted to the muses, yet here too were grace and charm; and you too, Damon, were a Tuscan tracing your lineage from the ancient city of Lucca. O how elated I was when, stretched by cool murmuring Arno and the poplar grove that softens the grass, I lay, now plucking violets, now sprays of myrtle, and listened to Menalcas contending with Lycidas in song! Even I myself dared to enter the contest, nor do I think I greatly displeased you, for I still have with me your gifts, reed baskets, bowls, and shepherd's pipes with waxen stops. Nay, both Dati and Francini, renowned for their eloquence and their learning, and both of Lydian blood, have taught my name to their beeches."Go, home unfed, my lambs, your troubled master is not free to tend you. These things the dewy moon used to tell me, when happy and alone I was shutting my tender kids in their wattled cotes. Ah! how often have I said when already you were but dark ashes:"'Now Damon is singing, or stretching nets for the hare; now he is plaiting osiers for his various uses.'"What I then with easy mind hoped for the future, with the wish I lightly seized and fancied present."Say, good friend, are you free? If nothing prevents us, let us go and lie down a while in the mumuring shade, by the waters of Colne, or in the fields of Cassivellanus. You shall tell me of your healing herbs and juices, hellebore, the lowly crocus, and the leaf of the hyacinth, whatever plants the marshes yield, and tell me of the physician's art."Ah! perish the herbs and the simplex, perish the physician's art, since they have profited their master nothing! And I — for I know not what my pipe was grandly sounding — it is now eleven nights and a day — and then perhaps I had put my lips to new pipes, but they burst asunder, broken at the fastening, and could no more bear the deep tones — I hesitate too lest I seem conceited, yet I will tell the tale — give place then, O forests."Go home unfed, my lambs, your troubled master is not free to tend you. I would tell of Dardanian ships along the Rutupian Sea, and of the ancient realm of Imogen, Pandrasus' daughter, of the leaders Brennus and Arviragus, and old Belinus, and of colonists in Armorica under British laws; then I would tell of Igraine pregnant with Arthur by a fatal fraud, of the seeming face and counterfeit arms of Gorlois, Merlin's artifice. Ah! then if life remain, you, my pipe, shall hang on some aged pine far off and forgotten, unless forsaking your native songs you shrilly sound a British theme. Why not a British theme? One man cannot do all things, cannot hope to do all things. Sufficient my reward, my honours ample — even if I am for ever unknown and wholly without fame in foreign parts — if yellow-haired Ouse reads me, and he who drinks the waters of Alaun, and Abra full of eddies, and all the woods of Trent, and above all my own Thames, and Tamar stained with metals, and if the Orkneys and their remotest waves but learn my songs."Go home unfed, my lambs, your troubled master is not free to tend you. These things I was keeping for you under the tough bark of the laurel, these and more besides. Then I thought to show you the two cups that Manso, not the least glory of the Chalcidian shore, gave me; a wonderful work of art they are — but Manso himself is wonderful. Round about they arc decorated with a double band of carving. In the middle arc the waters of the Red Sea and the odoriferous spring, the far off coasts of Arabia and the trees dropping balsam, amidst these the phoenix, divine bird, alone of its kind on earth, gleaming blue, with wings of many colours, watches Aurora rise over the glassy waves. In another part are great Olympus and the whole expanse of heaven. Yes, and who would believe it? Here too is Love, his quiver, flashing arms, and torch, his darts tipped with fiery bronze, all pictured in a cloud. He does not aim at little souls and the ignoble hearts of the rabble, but, rolling his flaming eyes about, unwearied he ever scatters his missiles on high through the spheres, and never aims his shots downward. Hence minds immortal and forms divine are inflamed with love."You too are among these, Damon — nor does elusive hope deceive me — surely you too are among these; for whither should your sweet and holy simplicity retire, whither your spotless virtue? It is wrong to seek you in Lethean Orcus. Tears become you not, and I shall weep no more. Away then tears! Damon dwells in the purity of heaven, for he himself is pure. He has thrust back the rainbow with his foot, and among the souls of heroes and the everlasting gods he quaffs the heavenly waters, and drinks of joys with his sacred lips. But now that the rights of heaven are yours, stand by my side and gently befriend me, whatever be now your name, whether you would still be our Damon, or whether you prefer to be called Diodati, by which divine name all the dwellers in heaven will know you, but in the forests you will still be called Damon. Because a rosy blush, and a youth without stain were dear to you, because you never tasted the pleasure of marriage, lo! for you are reserved a virgin's honours. Your noble head bound with a glittering wreath, in your hands the glad branches of the leafy palm, you shall for ever act and act again the immortal nuptials, where song and the lyre, mingled with the blessed dances, wax rapturous, and the joyous revels rage under the thyrsus of Zion."I am, for an atheist, almost unaccountably moved by penitential psalms. Here’s one of the great ones. Fred, you’ll recognize this one immediately from the opening words of the Vulgate version — our friend Oscar Wilde borrowed it for what is almost certainly the most affecting thing he ever wrote.Psalm 130 ( = Vulgate 129)המעלות ממעמקים קראתיך יהוהשמעה בקולי תהיינה אזניך קשבות לקול תחנותשמר-יה אדני מי יעמדהסליחה למען תוראיהוה קותה נפשי ולדברו הוחלתילאדני משמרים לבקר שמרים לבקרישראל אל-יהוה כי-עם-יהוה החסד והרבה עמו פדותיפדה את-ישראל מכל עונתיוVulgate — inferior to the original, but nonetheless like the voice of GodDe profundis clamavi ad te DomineDomine exaudi vocem meam fiant aures tuae intendentes in vocem deprecationis meaesi iniquitates observabis Domine Domine quis sustinebitquia apud te propitiatio est propter legem tuam sustinui te Domine sustinuit anima mea in verbum eiussperavit anima mea in Dominoa custodia matutina usque ad noctem speret Israhel in Dominoquia apud Dominum misericordia et copiosa apud eum redemptioet ipse redimet Israhel ex omnibus iniquitatibus eiusKing James Version (1611) — inferior to the Hebrew and the LatinOut of the depths have I cried unto thee, O Lord.Lord, hear my voice: let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications.If thou, Lord, shouldest mark iniquities, O Lord, who shall stand?But there is forgiveness with thee, that thou mayest be feared.I wait for the Lord, my soul doth wait, and in his word do I hope.My soul waiteth for the Lord more than they that watch for the morning: I say, more than they that watch for the morning.Let Israel hope in the Lord: for with the Lord there is mercy, and with him is plenteous redemption.And he shall redeem Israel from all his iniquities.I love non-human animals, not because they are less cruel than we, but because they are amoral; we betray the best we can be, but they simply are, and are magnificent for it. This poem has always found me.Robinson Jeffers, “Hurt Hawks”IThe broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder,The wing trails like a banner in defeat,No more to use the sky forever but live with famineAnd pain a few days: cat nor coyoteWill shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game without talons.He stands under the oak-bush and waitsThe lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedomAnd flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it.He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse.The curs of the day come and torment himAt distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble that head,The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes.The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to thoseThat ask mercy, not often to the arrogant.You do not know him, you communal people, or you have forgotten him;Intemperate and savage, the hawk remembers him;Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and men that are dying, remember him.III'd sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk;but the great redtailHad nothing left but unable miseryFrom the bone too shattered for mending, the wing that trailed under his talons when he moved.We had fed him six weeks, I gave him freedom,He wandered over the foreland hill and returned in the evening, asking for death,Not like a beggar, still eyed with the oldImplacable arrogance.I gave him the lead gift in the twilight.What fell was relaxed, Owl-downy, soft feminine feathers; but whatSoared: the fierce rush: the night-herons by the flooded river cried fear at its risingBefore it was quite unsheathed from reality.Still reading? Then try this one out. It will by now be obvious that great poems about parents and children just kill me.William Wordsworth, MichaelIF from the public way you turn your stepsUp the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,You will suppose that with an upright pathYour feet must struggle; in such bold ascentThe pastoral mountains front you, face to face.But, courage! for around that boisterous brookThe mountains have all opened out themselves,And made a hidden valley of their own.No habitation can be seen; but theyWho journey thither find themselves aloneWith a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kitesThat overhead are sailing in the sky.It is in truth an utter solitude;Nor should I have made mention of this DellBut for one object which you might pass by,Might see and notice not. Beside the brookAppears a struggling heap of unhewn stones!And to that simple object appertainsA story—unenriched with strange events,Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,Or for the summer shade. It was the firstOf those domestic tales that spake to meOf shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, menWhom I already loved;—not verilyFor their own sakes, but for the fields and hillsWhere was their occupation and abode.And hence this Tale, while I was yet a BoyCareless of books, yet having felt the powerOf Nature, by the gentle agencyOf natural objects, led me on to feelFor passions that were not my own, and think(At random and imperfectly indeed)On man, the heart of man, and human life.Therefore, although it be a historyHomely and rude, I will relate the sameFor the delight of a few natural hearts;And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sakeOf youthful Poets, who among these hillsWill be my second self when I am gone.Upon the forest-side in Grasmere ValeThere dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name;An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.His bodily frame had been from youth to ageOf an unusual strength: his mind was keen,Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,And in his shepherd’s calling he was promptAnd watchful more than ordinary men.Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds,Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes,When others heeded not, he heard the SouthMake subterraneous music, like the noiseOf bagpipers on distant Highland hills.The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flockBethought him, and he to himself would say,‘The winds are now devising work for me!’And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drivesThe traveller to a shelter, summoned himUp to the mountains: he had been aloneAmid the heart of many thousand mists,That came to him, and left him, on the heights.So lived he till his eightieth year was past.And grossly that man errs, who should supposeThat the green valleys, and the streams and rocks,Were things indifferent to the Shepherd’s thoughts.Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathedThe common air; hills, which with vigorous stepHe had so often climbed; which had impressedSo many incidents upon his mindOf hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear;Which, like a book, preserved the memoryOf the dumb animals, whom he had saved,Had fed or sheltered, linking to such actsThe certainty of honourable gain;Those fields, those hills—what could they less? had laidStrong hold on his affections, were to himA pleasurable feeling of blind love,The pleasure which there is in life itself.His days had not been passed in singleness.His Helpmate was a comely matron, old—Though younger than himself full twenty years.She was a woman of a stirring life,Whose heart was in her house; two wheels she hadOf antique form; this large, for spinning wool;That small, for flax; and if one wheel had restIt was because the other was at work.The Pair had but one inmate in their house,An only Child, who had been born to themWhen Michael, telling o’er his years, beganTo deem that he was old,—in shepherd’s phrase,With one foot in the grave. This only Son,With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm,The one of an inestimable worth,Made all their household. I may truly say,That they were as a proverb in the valeFor endless industry. When day was gone,And from their occupations out of doorsThe Son and Father were come home, even then,Their labour did not cease; unless when allTurned to the cleanly supper-board, and there,Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes,And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the mealWas ended, Luke (for so the son was named)And his old Father both betook themselvesTo such convenient work as might employTheir hands by the fireside; perhaps to cardWool for the Housewife’s spindle, or repairSome injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,Or other implement of house or field.Down from the ceiling, by the chimney’s edge,That in our ancient uncouth country styleWith huge and black projection overbrowedLarge space beneath, as duly as the lightOf day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp;An aged utensil, which had performedService beyond all others of its kind.Early at evening did it burn—and late,Surviving comrade of uncounted hours,Which, going by from year to year, had found,And left, the couple neither gay perhapsNor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes,Living a life of eager industry.And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year,There by the light of this old lamp they sate,Father and Son, while far into the nightThe Housewife plied her own peculiar work,Making the cottage through the silent hoursMurmur as with the sound of summer flies.This light was famous in its neighbourhood,And was a public symbol of the lifeThat thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced,Their cottage on a plot of rising groundStood single, with large prospect, north and south,High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise,And westward to the village near the lake;And from this constant light, so regularAnd so far seen, the House itself, by allWho dwelt within the limits of the vale,Both old and young, was named THE EVENING STAR.Thus living on through such a length of years,The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needsHave loved his Helpmate; but to Michael’s heartThis son of his old age was yet more dear—Less from instinctive tenderness, the sameFond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all—Than that a child, more than all other giftsThat earth can offer to declining man,Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,And stirrings of inquietude, when theyBy tendency of nature needs must fail.Exceeding was the love he bare to him,His heart and his heart’s joy! For oftentimesOld Michael, while he was a babe in arms,Had done him female service, not aloneFor pastime and delight, as is the useOf fathers, but with patient mind enforcedTo acts of tenderness; and he had rockedHis cradle, as with a woman’s gentle hand.And, in a later time, ere yet the BoyHad put on boy’s attire, did Michael love,Albeit of a stern unbending mind,To have the young-one in his sight, when heWrought in the field, or on his shepherd’s stoolSate with a fettered sheep before him stretchedUnder the large old oak, that near his doorStood single, and, from matchless depth of shade,Chosen for the Shearer’s covert from the sun,Thence in our rustic dialect was calledThe CLIPPING TREE, a name which yet it bears.There, while they two were sitting in the shade,With others round them, earnest all and blithe,Would Michael exercise his heart with looksOf fond correction and reproof bestowedUpon the Child, if he disturbed the sheepBy catching at their legs, or with his shoutsScared them, while they lay still beneath the shears.And when by Heaven’s good grace the boy grew upA healthy Lad, and carried in his cheekTwo steady roses that were five years old;Then Michael from a winter coppice cutWith his own hand a sapling, which he hoopedWith iron, making it throughout in allDue requisites a perfect shepherd’s staff,And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equiptHe as a watchman oftentimes was placedAt gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock;And, to his office prematurely called,There stood the urchin, as you will divine,Something between a hindrance and a help;And for this cause not always, I believe,Receiving from his Father hire of praise;Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice,Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform.But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could standAgainst the mountain blasts; and to the heights,Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways,He with his Father daily went, and theyWere as companions, why should I relateThat objects which the Shepherd loved beforeWere dearer now? that from the Boy there cameFeelings and emanations—things which wereLight to the sun and music to the wind;And that the old Man’s heart seemed born again?Thus in his Father’s sight the Boy grew up:And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year,He was his comfort and his daily hope.While in this sort the simple household livedFrom day to day, to Michael’s ear there cameDistressful tidings. Long before the timeOf which I speak, the Shepherd had been boundIn surety for his brother’s son, a manOf an industrious life, and ample means;But unforeseen misfortunes suddenlyHad prest upon him; and old Michael nowWas summoned to discharge the forfeiture,A grievous penalty, but little lessThan half his substance. This unlooked-for claim,At the first hearing, for a moment tookMore hope out of his life than he supposedThat any old man ever could have lost.As soon as he had armed himself with strengthTo look his troubles in the face, it seemedThe Shepherd’s sole resource to sell at onceA portion of his patrimonial fields.Such was his first resolve; he thought again,And his heart failed him. ‘Isabel,’ said he,Two evenings after he had heard the news,‘I have been toiling more than seventy years,And in the open sunshine of God’s loveHave we all lived; yet if these fields of oursShould pass into a stranger’s hand, I thinkThat I could not lie quiet in my grave.Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himselfHas scarcely been more diligent than I;And I have lived to be a fool at lastTo my own family. An evil manThat was, and made an evil choice, if heWere false to us; and if he were not false,There are ten thousand to whom loss like thisHad been no sorrow. I forgive him;—but’Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.When I began, my purpose was to speakOf remedies and of a cheerful hope.Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the landShall not go from us, and it shall be free;He shall possess it, free as is the windThat passes over it. We have, thou know’st,Another kinsman—he will be our friendIn this distress. He is a prosperous man,Thriving in trade—and Luke to him shall go,And with his kinsman’s help and his own thriftHe quickly will repair this loss, and thenHe may return to us. If here he stay,What can be done? Where every one is poor,What can be gained?At this the old Man paused,And Isabel sat silent, for her mindWas busy, looking back into past times.There’s Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,He was a parish boy—at the church-doorThey made a gathering for him, shillings, penceAnd halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours boughtA basket, which they filled with pedlar’s wares;And, with this basket on his arm, the ladWent up to London, found a master there,Who, out of many, chose the trusty boyTo go and overlook his merchandiseBeyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich,And left estates and monies to the poor,And, at his birthplace, built a chapel flooredWith marble which he sent from foreign lands.These thoughts, and many others of like sort,Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,And her face brightened. The old Man was glad,And thus resumed:—‘Well, Isabel! this schemeThese two days, has been meat and drink to me.Far more than we have lost is left us yet.—We have enough—I wish indeed that IWere younger;—but this hope is a good hope.—Make ready Luke’s best garments, of the bestBuy for him more, and let us send him forthTo-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:—If he could go, the Boy should go to-night.’Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forthWith a light heart. The Housewife for five daysWas restless morn and night, and all day longWrought on with her best fingers to prepareThings needful for the journey of her son.But Isabel was glad when Sunday cameTo stop her in her work: for, when she layBy Michael’s side, she through the last two nightsHeard him, how he was troubled in his sleep:And when they rose at morning she could seeThat all his hopes were gone. That day at noonShe said to Luke, while they two by themselvesWere sitting at the door, ‘Thou must not go:We have no other Child but thee to lose,None to remember—do not go away,For if thou leave thy Father he will die.’The Youth made answer with a jocund voice;And Isabel, when she had told her fears,Recovered heart. That evening her best fareDid she bring forth, and all together satLike happy people round a Christmas fire.With daylight Isabel resumed her work;And all the ensuing week the house appearedAs cheerful as a grove in Spring: at lengthThe expected letter from their kinsman came,With kind assurances that he would doHis utmost for the welfare of the Boy;To which, requests were added, that forthwithHe might be sent to him. Ten times or moreThe letter was read over; IsabelWent forth to show it to the neighbours round;Nor was there at that time on English landA prouder heart than Luke’s. When IsabelHad to her house returned, the old Man said,‘He shall depart to-morrow.’ To this wordThe Housewife answered, talking much of thingsWhich, if at such short notice he should go,Would surely be forgotten. But at lengthShe gave consent, and Michael was at ease.Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,In that deep valley, Michael had designedTo build a Sheepfold; and, before he heardThe tidings of his melancholy loss,For this same purpose he had gathered upA heap of stones, which by the streamlet’s edgeLay thrown together, ready for the work.With Luke that evening thitherward he walked;And soon as they had reached the place he stopped.And thus the old Man spake to him:—‘My Son,To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heartI look upon thee, for thou art the sameThat wert a promise to me ere thy birth,And all thy life hast been my daily joy.I will relate to thee some little partOf our two histories; ’twill do thee goodWhen thou art from me, even if I should touchOn things thou canst not know of.—After thouFirst cam’st into the world—as oft befallsTo new-born infants—thou didst sleep awayTwo days, and blessings from thy Father’s tongueThen fell upon thee. Day by day passed on,And still I loved thee with increasing love.Never to living ear came sweeter soundsThan when I heard thee by our own firesideFirst uttering, without words, a natural tune:While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joySing at thy Mother’s breast. Month followed month,And in the open fields my life was passedAnd on the mountains; else I think that thouHadst been brought up upon thy Father’s knees.But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills,As well thou knowest, in us the old and youngHave played together, nor with me didst thouLack any pleasure which a boy can know.’Luke had a manly heart; but at these wordsHe sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand,And said, ‘Nay, do not take it so—I seeThat these are things of which I need not speak.—Even to the utmost I have been to theeA kind and a good Father: and hereinI but repay a gift which I myselfReceived at others’ hand; for, though now oldBeyond the common life of man, I stillRemember them who loved me in my youth.Both of them sleep together; here they lived,As all their Forefathers had done; and whenAt length their time was come, they were not lothTo give their bodies to the family mould.I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived:But, ’tis a long time to look back, my SonAnd see so little gained from threescore years.These fields were burthened when they came to me;Till I was forty years of age, not moreThan half of my inheritance was mine.I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work,And till these three weeks past the land was free.—It looks as if it never could endureAnother Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,If I judge ill for thee, but it seems goodThat thou shouldst go.’At this the old Man paused;Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood,Thus, after a short silence, he resumed:‘This was a work for us; and now, my Son,It is a work for me. But, lay one stone—Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands.Nay, Boy, be of good hope;—we both may liveTo see a better day. At eighty-fourI still am strong and hale;—do thou thy part;I will do mine.—I will begin againWith many tasks that were resigned to thee:Up to the heights, and in among the storms,Will I without thee go again, and doAll works which I was wont to do alone,Before I knew thy face.—Heaven bless thee, Boy!Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fastWith many hopes; it should be so—yes—yes—I knew that thou couldst never have a wishTo leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to meOnly by links of love: when thou art gone,What will be left to us!—But, I forgetMy purposes: Lay now the corner-stone,As I requested; and hereafter, Luke,When thou art gone away, should evil menBe thy companions, think of me, my Son,And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts,And God will strengthen thee: amid all fearAnd all temptations, Luke, I pray that thouMay’st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived,Who, being innocent, did for that causeBestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well—When thou return’st, thou in this place wilt seeA work which is not here: a covenant’Twill be between us; but, whatever fateBefall thee, I shall love thee to the last,And bear thy memory with me to the grave.’The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped down,And, as his Father had requested, laidThe first stone of the Sheepfold. At the sightThe old Man’s grief broke from him; to his heartHe pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept;And to the house together they returned.—Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace,Ere the Night fell:—with morrow’s dawn the BoyBegan his journey, and when he had reachedThe public way, he put on a bold face;And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors,Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,That followed him till he was out of sight.A good report did from their kinsman come,Of Luke and his well-doing: and the BoyWrote loving letters, full of wondrous news,Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout‘The prettiest letters that were ever seen.’Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.So, many months passed on: and once againThe Shepherd went about his daily workWith confident and cheerful thoughts; and nowSometimes when he could find a leisure hourHe to that valley took his way, and thereWrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime Luke beganTo slacken in his duty; and, at length,He in the dissolute city gave himselfTo evil courses: ignominy and shameFell on him, so that he was driven at lastTo seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.There is a comfort in the strength of love;’Twill make a thing endurable, which elseWould overset the brain, or break the heart:I have conversed with more than one who wellRemember the old Man, and what he wasYears after he had heard this heavy news.His bodily frame had been from youth to ageOf an unusual strength. Among the rocksHe went, and still looked up to sun and cloud,And listened to the wind; and, as before,Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep,And for the land, his small inheritance.And to that hollow dell from time to timeDid he repair, to build the Fold of whichHis flock had need. ’Tis not forgotten yetThe pity which was then in every heartFor the old Man—and ’tis believed by allThat many and many a day he thither went,And never lifted up a single stone.There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seenSitting alone, or with his faithful Dog,Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.The length of full seven years, from time to time,He at the building of this Sheepfold wrought,And left the work unfinished when he died.Three years, or little more, did IsabelSurvive her Husband: at her death the estateWas sold, and went into a stranger’s hand.The Cottage which was named THE EVENING STARIs gone—the ploughshare has been through the groundOn which it stood; great changes have been wroughtIn all the neighbourhood:—yet the oak is leftThat grew beside their door; and the remainsOf the unfinished Sheepfold may be seenBeside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll.But I want to leave you with a bit of graveyard courage. This is as heroic a poem as I know. How I love Yeats. Not a drop of Irish blood in my veins, but this has spoken to me profoundly since I first read it.ISwear by what the Sages spokeRound the Mareotic LakeThat the Witch of Atlas knew,Spoke and set the cocks a-crow.Swear by those horsemen, by those women,Complexion and form prove superhuman,That pale, long visaged companyThat airs an immortalityCompleteness of their passions won;Now they ride the wintry dawnWhere Ben Bulben sets the scene.Here's the gist of what they mean.IIMany times man lives and diesBetween his two eternities,That of race and that of soul,And ancient Ireland knew it all.Whether man dies in his bedOr the rifle knocks him dead,A brief parting from those dearIs the worst man has to fear.Though grave-diggers' toil is long,Sharp their spades, their muscle strong,They but thrust their buried menBack in the human mind again.IIIYou that Mitchel's prayer have heard`Send war in our time, O Lord!'Know that when all words are saidAnd a man is fighting mad,Something drops from eyes long blindHe completes his partial mind,For an instant stands at ease,Laughs aloud, his heart at peace,Even the wisest man grows tenseWith some sort of violenceBefore he can accomplish fateKnow his work or choose his mate.IVPoet and sculptor do the workNor let the modish painter shirkWhat his great forefathers did,Bring the soul of man to God,Make him fill the cradles right.Measurement began our might:Forms a stark Egyptian thought,Forms that gentler Phidias wrought.Michael Angelo left a proofOn the Sistine Chapel roof,Where but half-awakened AdamCan disturb globe-trotting MadamTill her bowels are in heat,Proof that there's a purpose setBefore the secret working mind:Profane perfection of mankind.Quattrocento put in paint,On backgrounds for a God or Saint,Gardens where a soul's at ease;Where everything that meets the eyeFlowers and grass and cloudless skyResemble forms that are, or seemWhen sleepers wake and yet still dream,And when it's vanished still declare,With only bed and bedstead there,That Heavens had opened.Gyres run on;When that greater dream had goneCalvert and Wilson, Blake and ClaudePrepared a rest for the people of God,Palmer's phrase, but after thatConfusion fell upon our thought.VIrish poets learn your tradeSing whatever is well made,Scorn the sort now growing upAll out of shape from toe to top,Their unremembering hearts and headsBase-born products of base beds.Sing the peasantry, and thenHard-riding country gentlemen,The holiness of monks, and afterPorter-drinkers' randy laughter;Sing the lords and ladies gayThat were beaten into the clayThrough seven heroic centuries;Cast your mind on other daysThat we in coming days may beStill the indomitable Irishry.VIUnder bare Ben Bulben's headIn Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid,An ancestor was rector thereLong years ago; a church stands near,By the road an ancient Cross.No marble, no conventional phrase,On limestone quarried near the spotBy his command these words are cut:Cast a cold eyeOn life, on death.Horseman, pass by!